


Another Day, Another Life

by orphan_account



Category: The Carrie Diaries
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Gen, HIV/AIDS, M/M, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Spoilers for 2.10, looked pretty fiesty and was my fave, mild speculation for 2.13, ok carl isn't real but one of those drag queens, reaction fic, so i named him/her Carl
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-11
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-08 09:10:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1130809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bennet is so tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another Day, Another Life

.

Eric looks weak. Not just physically, when the words are nearly pried out of his mouth, but the way his eyes drift inwards, his hands curl in and out like he isn’t bothered to grab whatever might be in the air.

“Where was the last place you traveled, hmm? Was it Europe, again, or Aust-”

“Bennet,” It’s whispered, barely there, but Bennet snaps his head back and looks at the limp hand brushing his own.  Cold and clammy, everything about Eric is ghosting, barely there.

“You’re not dead yet,” Bennet says, to himself mainly, as Eric’s hand falls flat under the grip of unconsciousness.

The tulips are fresh, bright and alive in the room, and Bennet would like them wilted, if only to switch their vitality for Eric’s. Minutes pass, maybe hours, but the clock tells him Walt is a priority, so Bennet stretches in his stiff bones. There is no goodbye, he just moves to place his hand on Eric’s shoulder.

Then he hesitates, blind fear making his hand hover over the sharp jut of bone and skin. Bennet is disgusted with himself, he knows touching doesn’t pass on the disease, so he grips Eric’s shoulder and wills his apology through the skin and muscle.

The nurse is waiting for him outside, and she is kindly, crow’s feet stretching over the prominent bone of her skull. She probably has grandchildren, all with the cross hanging from their young necks, and scriptures turning in their small hands. Bennet knows she would probably hate him if she knew of Eric or Walt, the action cold and reserved, and the thought of her dislike spreads a chill over his shoulders.

“How’s your friend?” She places a wrinkling hand on his shoulder. Walt accepts the gesture like the lie he ignores, trying to soak up as much as her goodness before it turns ugly.

“I hope he’ll be better next time,”

“Good,” Her gait is steady, and Bennet squeezes the wrinkled hand (his finger brushes over her ring, over callouses brought on by parenthood). He thanks her, wrapping his jacket tight and ignoring the wind that bites at him like an animal.

.

“This week has felt like the longest week of my life,” Bennet can feel the weariness follow him like a third shadow.

Walt listens halfway about his trip to the hospital, then with uneasy eyes and banging fists he goes deaf.

“I can’t hear this!”

And it’s not the sickness Walt can’t handle, or his more than graphic description, Bennet realizes. It’s the entirety of their existence as a couple, in which the bubble of _Walt and Bennet_ is broken. Walt can’t handle the clubs and the boisterous laughter, and the way drag queens unceremoniously slap his ass.

Bennet relies on his community for support and safety, Walt can’t even admit that he’s a part of it. Several cruel things bubble up in Bennet’s throat, sharp and poking at the edges. _Grow up_ , he wants to hiss. _No one else will understand you in the way we do._

But he swallows them, asks for Walt’s take because it’s the one that matters. It’s an ‘I love you’ and an apology, and it’s a threat, looming over both of them even when Walt leaves.

 _I love you_ , it says, _but I will leave you if I have to._

It’s the loss that stings most, brings heavy tears into the corners of his eyes. Bennet blinks them back, brings his fingers around the cup so his nails touch the soft skin of the other finger, and watches Walt’s receding figure curl into the steam of his mocha.

.

Technically, they’re broken up, but Walt still visits him. They curl on the couch, Looney Toons playing mindlessly on the television. Walt kisses him with practiced desperation, hands tugging at his shirt and pants until they fuck on the couch, with Bugs Bunny in the background.

Bennet talks to him, still, about everything but the iron wall between them. Stories of Larissa and Samantha’s escapades have him in fits for hours on end, and Bennet is glad he can still do this, still make Walt happy.

One time Walt sleeps over, curling near Bennet on the tiny bed. They wake up leisurely on the weekend, and Walt flips pancakes while Bennet wipes the dishes afterwards. Everything they do, from Walt placing a piece of fruit in his mouth, to the syrupy kiss Bennet receives afterwards, feels ridiculously domestic. Walt is okay with it, when the door is locked and the window is shut.

He leaves again, after a few hours. The delay was brought on by the less than innocent goodbye kiss Walt planted on him. It resulted in a blowjob, in which Bennet might’ve broken a dried dish in the process. After that, Walt still doesn’t want to leave, but the soft reminder of his parents has him packing.

Bennet waves goodbye, shuts the door after Walt leaves, and proceeds to open all the windows until cold air is brewing in his living room.

.

Walt is invited back to his parent’s home, obviously, and spends most of his time ignoring Bennet. Carrie sees it, tries to console Bennet with her petite frame around his, arms wrapped tight. Bennet hugs back, maybe tighter than normal, feels the press of her breasts against his chest.

It must be the alcohol that twists the feeling in his gut, the one that stores the warmth of Carrie’s body like memory foam. _If only you liked it_ , the glass bottle sighs, _if only you both liked it._

Bennet drowns the drinks like he can’t breathe, watching his boss and his friend ride a horse through the club. A few buttons have popped loose on his shirt, as the temperature rose considerably once someone put on a disco track.

Everyone’s body is free, smooth unbroken lines of skin and leather. A drag queen (Carl, owns a grocery shop near Fifth) shimmies past him, and Bennet is lost in the swirl of gold eyeliner. The contours of her face are thick, painting down her body.

“You look beautiful,” he whispers drunkenly, and Carl spins him twice before planting a loud kiss near the seam of his mouth.

“You look drunk,”

Bennet scoffs, fumbling with the glass before he sets it down. It’s refilled with terrifying accuracy, and Bennet has the alcohol burning down his throat before he even thinks of picking up the glass.

“Where’s the boyfriend?” Carl pulls him easily onto the dance floor.

“Connecticut,” Bennet mutters. “He has a problem with all of this,” He gestures to the cages and the people and the Peacock Man.

Carl sighs softly, wrapping her arms around Bennet’s waist and sashaying them into the beat. The touch is light and simple, like proof of the safety it can offer. Bennet wishes Walt could see _this_ , see the security the four glittered walls of the club provide.

Carl spins him, and Bennet kisses her hand, light and joking.

“Thank you, milady,”

Carl bows, then looks to find another person to dance with. Bennet carries himself to the bar, prepared to become smashingly drunk, but a small hand stops him.

It is Carrie again, eyes sparkling under the strobe lights. “Bennet,” she bites her lip. “’Would you come outside for a while?”

There is no _why_ or _what_ , just pushing past people under cool nighttime air hits his face. Carrie takes his hand, leading Bennet towards the back of an alley. Under the street lamp, a figure leans against the wall.

“Walt,” Carrie calls out. “He’s here,”

Bennet drops Carrie’s hand, wondering if he should run away. The idea is stupid and ridiculous, right on par with how Bennet is feeling.

Carrie leaves quietly, slips back into the pounding bass. Walt comes close, hugs him, and Bennet can feel how controlled the movement is.

“You wanted to see me?” He figures they should start with small things.

“’Yeah,” Walt smiles a little. “It’s been a long week for me,”

He echoes what Bennet said a month ago, perhaps unconsciously, but the reminder swirls something nasty in Bennet’s stomach. Bennet quashes the feeling of resentment that builds up incessantly.

They stand together awkwardly (which is so wrong, things with Walt were never awkward), and Walt rolls on the balls of his feet.

“Why are you here, Bennet? Carrie told me all you were doing was drinking,”

“I like it here,” Bennet replies simply. “I come whenever I feel... less than stellar,”

Walt’s eyes widen incredulously. “You _like_ it here? This place is crazy, Bennet!”

His voice is loud, angry and cracking in the air. No one is outright looking at them, but several people waiting in line have perked up their ears.

“It feels _safe_ , Walt. That’s why I’m here,”

“You’re telling me dancing around with drag queens and leather daddies makes you safe?”

Bennet scrubs his eyes, drunken anger magnifying the headache he feels. Walt presses on, something manic on his face.

“These _freaks_ come here every night, basically groping you, and you drink until you can’t see straight! How in any way is that safe?”

“These _people_ ,” Bennet feels a rough growl crawling into his tone. “Are just trying to be happy,”

 Walt frowns at him, and Bennet sees the clear distinction between the club and his ex-boyfriend. Walt doesn’t want the glitter and the alcohol, he wants safety and security and a white picket fence. Bennet has long ago learned to hate the suffocation those things bring.

All of it, the anger and the alcohol, they swirl like a particularly nasty cocktail. Bennet steps in close, feeling Walt inhale sharply, and looks as cold as he can.

“If you have such a problem with all of this, why did you come here?”

Walt gulps, and Bennet bulldozes past what he thinks are tears swimming in his eyes. His voice rises, and it’s too late when Bennet realizes he’s practically yelling.

“Why don’t you go back to Connecticut, Walt? Why don’t you find a nice girl and have a family, and go back to the people who can’t even look at you in the eye?”

The minute he says it, Bennet knows it’s wrong. He’s way out of line, he _knows_ , but everything that has happened has taken a toll on him. The whiskey and the strobe lights, all with equally intoxicating effects. Bennet is treated with the sight of tears, reflective in the dim light, on Walt’s face. He runs to Carrie ( _like he always does_ , an ugly part of Bennet hisses) and both of them recede back from the club.

Carrie turns back to look at him, but Walt doesn’t.

Bennet goes home and pukes until his stomach begs for mercy.

.

Eric dies a few months after, when Bennet is stiff in the armchair, one hand curled around his. The same nurse finds them, she looks at their clasped hands and Bennet can see her sympathy dissipating.

The heart monitor flat lines, so Bennet leaves the room and clutches the sink of the guest washroom. The entire place reeks of antiseptic, and the white porcelain still has scrub marks on it.  

He signs the visitor sheet, calls Eric’s parents and tells them. They’re silent, and they thank Bennet for being with him.

“Wait,” Eric’s mother stops him from hanging up. Bennet twists the cord in his finger, noting the obvious crack in her voice. “Did he think of us, Bennet?”

It’s strange, lying for someone who doesn’t have an opinion anymore, but Bennet does it anyway.

“He missed you, ma’am. And I know he missed his Dad, too,”

A sob crackles in the static between them. “Thank you, Bennet,”

She hangs up, and Bennet fumbles with the receiver. The nurse is looking at him, mouth in a flat, passive line.

“You told them?”

“Yes,”

She nods, taking him by the elbow. They sit outside the hospital on a bench, Bennet and the nurse, until her pager buzzes. Before she goes, the nurse clasps her hand with his. The ring shines cold and bright in the afternoon sun.

“Stay brave,” she advises, looking him straight in the eye. Her eyes are deep green, crinkling like the robust oaks behind them.

Bennet swallows her words, tastes their strong truth and lets her kindness settle inside him. The heat beats down incessantly, and Bennet falls asleep in it.

A hand on his shoulder, shaking hard, wakes him. At first Bennet thinks the nurse is kicking him out for sleeping on hospital property, but it isn’t her. Instead, Bennet sees Walt looming over him, casting a cool shadow over his face.

There’s no Carrie, or anyone else for that matter. Only Walt, settling next to him on the bench. His hands cover Bennet’s easily, and they sit together, breathing.

“Eric died,” Bennet starts without much preamble.

“Tell me everything,” Walt is looking at the clouds, but his grip is tight and his jaw is strong.

Bennet tells him everything.

. 

**Author's Note:**

> I studied for my midterms, watched this episode, and I think I cried so hard I forgot all my hard work. Fuck. 
> 
> Anyway, this is just a character study piece thing-y, as the episode really got to me. I was impressed by, like, everything. Walt’s rejection of the queer community was very well done, and his fears were justifiable. But Bennet, oh my, what he must be feeling. I had to write.


End file.
